


Honey

by hawkeblocke



Series: Hanged Men, Stolen Things [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: (No actual sex though sorry), Canon-Typical Alchoholism, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Original Bosmer characters, no canon characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8756761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeblocke/pseuds/hawkeblocke
Summary: After months of traveling in the colder climate, Faenriel still wasn't used to the harshness of Skyrim’s most northern regions. He didn't know how nords dealt with it, though he supposed when you were born in snow and ice you didn't know anything warmer.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Right so holy shit I haven't posted anything in a while and I am so. God damn sorry. About that. 
> 
> Furthermore I have so much to say to anyone who has been, or did at one point, following me and reading my stuff or commenting on my stuff. I read all of the comments I get and I just want to say that I am so unbelievably grateful and touched by all of the the things you guys have to say. I know. It's a saying fanfic writers say a lot, but it doesn't cease to be true. There is no way to describe the feeling I get when I read the things people have to say about my works and (specifically) my characters. Seeing as I put a lot of thought into each and every one of my OCs, a lot of them feel like they are a part of me and it's so good and amazIng to see people enjoy them. So I'm going to go out on a limb, which brings me to my next point.
> 
> With the Skyrim special addition having been released for PS4 I thought I'd celebrate by posting an old new work of my own, centering around a couple of characters that I never introduced in my Caine and Brynjolf arch, but are in the same universe. Both of these characters are 100% OC, none are even canon Dragonborn, and only exist in the Skyrim universe because, at some point, they become relevant to Caine's arch.
> 
> I don't know how they will be recieved, which is why I never posted this when I wrote it the first time, but I've decided I'm going to give them a try, these few years later. If there is enough interest surrounding these two, I may be inclined to post more stuff of them, so please, feedback would be lovely. 
> 
> And a final disclaimer: this is almost three years old now, written when I was 18. Most of it is the original writing, but I did edit it and add a few modern flourishes to make it flow better. Be thankful for that. The original was very, very bad.

The inn was a quiet one, a little one, and almost completely occupied by women. And not just any women, no.  The ladies that filled the little tavern were none other than tall, fair-skinned nords.  Skyrim was filled with them, true, but to the bosmer it was like something straight out of a book. Maybe one that ended with being fed snowberries out of a creamy palm in a nice big bed. 

There were a few men who had the same idea, only that couldn't wait to act on it. Faenriel had priorities, ones that sadly didn't agree with the meager rattle of the coin purse at his hip, but he would make do. After all, the inn was quiet, and no one liked a quiet inn.

He found a spot at the bar, for the moment enjoying the big open fire pit that radiated warmth at his back.  After months of traveling in the colder climate, Faenriel still wasn't used to the harshness of Skyrim’s most northern regions. He didn't know how nords dealt with it, though he supposed when you were born in snow and ice you didn't know anything warmer.

Unless, of course, you were sitting by a nice fire.

“What can I do for you, dear?” The barkeep was a short, stout looking woman with greying hair and a mole the size of his thumb on her nose, her voice was light and motherly.  Faenriel forced a smile.

“Could I get a spiced mead for a few songs, miss?”

The woman looked at him like she didn't see the lute strapped to his back. “You're a bard are you?  We don't see many of your sort ‘round here!”

_ Perhaps if it weren't so bloody cold in these parts more bards would come ‘round _ . Faenriel rubbed his hands together and pulled the lute around to sit on his lap, and his fingers began to pluck cords with practiced ease.  It got him a few looks, some women turning to see the owner of the short tune.

There was something about the instrument,  the familiar feeling of wood and string in his lap that set his body at ease, that let an invisible weight lift off his shoulders.  Faenriel’s smile suddenly became more genuine. “Yes, ma’am, I'm on my way back from Winterhold and thought I'd stop here for a hot meal and a warm bed… sadly I haven't enough coin for a cup of soup.”

The woman’s brows drew together predictably, and she looked as though she were ready to take him up on his offer, though Faenriel could tell by the stubborn set to her shoulders that something was holding her back. A pity, too. His story was mostly genuine, save a few details that weren't important.  Damn the maternal type, gods damned bleeding hearts that they were, they were never quite trusting enough to let one get away with free things in exchange for a tune or two.

The woman opened her mouth to speak, and Faenriel prepared himself for another story about how she would gladly take him in for the night, provided he did something for her in return. Perhaps something that needed retrieval from a dangerous cave, or a rowdy group of bandits needed to be told off. It didn't matter. Faenriel was sure he could convince her it could wait on the morrow, and he would be long gone before she was any the wiser.

“Maybe I could help you out with that, and you can save your songs for more appreciative ears.” The newcomer was all dark hair and tanned skin and beautiful eyes that reminded him of molten honey. It was a strange and welcome contradiction to the masculine voice that sounded more like a cat's purr with each word the man spoke.

The man handed the barkeep a small sack of coins. “Get the bard his soup and mead, and I'll have some o’ that Summer Ale.” He flashed the old woman a pearly smile that sent her on her way, and then those golden pools of honey were staring at him. The corner of the man’s mouth upturned in a friendly grin. “You don't want to sing out here if you value your life, friend. You would drown in dimwitted women.”

Faenriel couldn't help but chuckle at the stranger's dry words.  “I can think of worse fates.”

The man hummed, his grin never fading. “I'm sure you could. They don't see much of us this far north, we must be damn near exotic.”

Now his smile did fade slightly, as he turned around in his seat so he could lean back on the bar. Faenriel plucked at cord on his lute.

“You're the strangest looking bard I've ever seen.” He said, like he didn't see the pointed ears or the high elven cheek bones, as if he didn't know he was speaking to another wood elf.

“I don't sing for my money, no. The only string I pull is the one on my bow. It's enough for me.  The name's Gunnar,” Gunnar took a long drink from his cup, hiding his bitter grimace well, or perhaps it was nonexistent. He looked like a man who drank the stuff often.  Faenriel played a few more cords of his lute before setting the instrument down beside him.

A bowl of steaming soup was set in front of him. The broth was thin,  but it was filled with wild tomatoes and bits of mushroom and garlic, as well as some type of meat he wasn't sure he wanted to know the origin of. The smell made his mouth water and his stomach growl all the same, and it took a considerable amount of restraint not to simply devour it on the spot. Instead, he brought the bowl to his lips, pretending not to notice the honeyed eyes on him in favor of enjoying the pleasant taste of the broth.

“I've had better ales,” Gunnar murmured like he hadn't been staring at the way Faenriel’s fingers cradled his bowl and busied himself with with swirling the dark liquid in its cup after lowering it from his mouth. “But nothing quite reminds me of Falkreath like this one.”

Faenriel felt his brow rise in surprise. He could have sworn on his soul that Gunnar was from Valenwood. He certainly looked the part, maybe not traditionally, but certainly in the skin and the proud way he held himself, even relaxed as they were. No one quite pulled off ‘proud’ and ‘savage’ like the bosmer did. “Are you from there?”

Gunnar tossed him a sideways grin before resuming his absent gaze across the inn. “Bred, born, and raised, my friend.”  A chuckle bubbled from his throat, deeper and richer sounding than Faenriel expected. He found that he quite liked it. “It's how I knew the good lady wouldn't let you get away with a free meal without roping you into some noble deed. Folk around Skyrim are all the same. Few will do anything remotely altruistic without getting something in return.” There was a steady flush on his pretty cheekbones, the tips of his ears a pleasant pink that made Faenriel wonder about the kinds of things Gunnar thought he could get in return for his own good deeds. He deflected, though,  not quite ready to voice impure thoughts in a room full of women.  “You said you just came from Winterhold. Performing for the college?”

“Never been,” Faenriel wondered at the cogs he could see turning behind Gunnar’s eyes, marveled at the way he could clearly see him building his resolve. Damn him if Faenriel found it to be endearingly adorable. “The mages up there are a bit stuck up, truth be told.”

“A shame, too,” Gunnar despaired, “with those tricks of theirs, they are quite fun.” Faenriel caught himself humming.

“I am sensing a story, there.”

“For another time.”

“Will there be?” Faenriel couldn't stop himself from sounding hopeful in the way that earned him a grin that was more suggestive than anything, Gunnar’s honey colored eyes dark and sharp reminiscent of a predator ready to conquer his prey.

“I'm almost sure of it.” Gunnar was silent for a moment, before he decided to free Faenriel from his piercing gaze and go in for the kill. “I couldn't forget a face like yours. I wonder if your voice is as pretty when you sing?”

Faenriel grinned. He already liked were this had been going, but now he was positively giddy. He wondered if Gunnar had wanted it to go anywhere else, as if he had watched Faenriel walk in and knew exactly what he'd wanted to do for the rest of the evening. Still, he made to grab his lute with a knowing smile. “Care to find out? I'm sure these fine people love a little entertainment.”

Though, judging by some of the looks they were getting now, they were already providing plenty of entertainment and gossip to last the little in a week or more.

Gunnar looked at though he were considering it. “How about a private viewing? ‘Death by women’ as pleasant a fate as you want to believe. I'll make it worth your time,” Gunnar stood, revealing what Faenriel had already thought to be a lean figure, the black leathers of Gunnar’s armor just tight enough to give the impression of what  was underneath. His hand extended, more as an offer than to help Faenriel up, honey eyes filled with suggestion, making his intent clear. Gunnar had known exactly how he wanted this night to end, as Faenriel suspected, and he found himself entertaining the thought.

He took Gunnar’s hand.

“I'm sure you will.”


End file.
